You've Been Warned

“No, it’s okay. I think I’m a little on edge thanks to the roaches.” Among other things.

He pats his trusty spray canister. “Hopefully we’ve taken care of that for a while.”

“About how long does the poison last?”

“A month or so.”

“That’s all? You’d think there’d be something better in this day and age.”

“You mean something that lasts forever?”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid there’s only one thing in this world that lasts forever.”

“Let me guess. Love?”

“No,” he says, leaning in close. “That’d be your soul.”

Chapter 49

AT HALF PAST EIGHT, I walk into the bustling Elio’s on Second Avenue near 84th Street and scan the bar area, keeping in mind the description I’ve been given. Tall, dark, very handsome, answers to Stephen.

If you say so, Penley.

You’re the boss. And believe you me, if you weren’t, there’s no way I’d be going through with this blind date! Not right now especially.

“Excuse me, are you Kristin?”

I turn around and look up at a pair of amazingly high cheekbones. As for the rest of him, I take a quick glance.

Tall, dark, very handsome. Check, check, check.

“You must be Stephen,” I say, and can’t keep a slight smile off my face.

A minute later we’re sitting at a cozy table for two along the wall. Michael would be sooo jealous.

But that’s not why I’m feeling guilty. As Stephen and I talk and get acquainted—he owns a film editing company, likes to rock climb—it seems as if he’s a genuinely nice guy. I feel bad that I’m wasting his time. My heart belongs to Michael.

After a few minutes, I think Stephen picks up on it. “Are you seeing someone?” he asks.

I feel even worse having to lie. “No,” I answer. “There’s no one.”

“Penley told me you weren’t, but I guess I wanted to make sure.” He smiles. Nice smile too. “I should talk, right? I assume you heard about my situation?”

I shake my head. “Just that you recently came out of a relationship.”

“That’s one way to put it, I guess. Personally, I prefer the word dumped.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I made a mistake,” he says, shaking his head. “I got involved with someone who’s married.”

Oh.

Thankfully, the awkward silence is broken by the waiter arriving to announce the night’s specials. By the time he’s done telling us about the veal osso buco, the blackened sea bass, and a “delightful” seafood risotto, I’m thinking it’s safe to change the subject with Stephen.

Think again.

“So tell me more about your film editing company,” I say as the waiter strolls off.

It’s as if he doesn’t even hear me.

“You know what the worst part is? I believed her,” he says. “She kept telling me how she was going to leave her husband. I really should’ve known better. They never leave.”

I immediately reach for my glass of water. My mouth is dry. Like I’ve been eating Saltines on the Sahara.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks. “You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

He sighs. “Jeez, listen to me going on and on about my ex. I apologize.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Sure,” I say. “It’s not easy letting go.” I did it once, big-time. With Matthew of Boston.

“You’re right. But there’s something else and it’s been killing me.”

“What’s that?”

“The guilt. It never occurred to me until the relationship ended,” he says. “I mean, where did I get off trying to break up a marriage?”

I hear him say the words and I have to remind myself that he’s not talking about me. This is about him. But weirdly, I can’t help feeling defensive. The parallel to Michael and me is unmistakable, and more than a little unnerving.

“Clearly this woman you were seeing doesn’t have a good marriage,” I point out.

“Yes, but good or bad it’s still a marriage—I shouldn’t have been trying to ruin it. They’ve got kids, for Christ’s sake.”

“But she doesn’t really love them!” I blurt out.

He looks at me sideways. “Excuse me?”

Uh-oh. Say something, Kristin. Anything! At least get your size eight out of your mouth.

I clear my throat, trying to reel myself in. Then I put my hand on top of his. “I just think you’re being too hard on yourself, Stephen. Remember, it takes two to tango.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in closer. “Except you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“No one’s ever forced to dance, are they?”